Foxholes

I turn into the Creekside Cabins gravel lot just past six on a Saturday night, park myDeSoto and push open the creaky office door.I've never stayed here and don't know anybody who did.Creekside is for traveling salesmen, drifters, truckers and fake couples, not solid businessmen like me.But I need a safe place to sleep and not think about my wife slamming the side of my face with a two-tone Oxford from my own shoe store.The clerk is bent over a Motor Trend magazine spread on the new 1959 Buicks.He doesn't look up from the long lines and sharp tailfins until I'm standing at the counter.His eyes pop."Jesus H. Christ," he says."That's some bruise.What happened to you?" "I-fell off a ladder."The clerk's look says he doesn't believe me, but like a lot of things at Creekside, he lets it go.I can't.Telling lies yanks me back to when I was a child feigning stomach pain to dodge a history test.I'll never forget the gut-twisting shame of watching my mother collapse in tears, fearing the burst appendix that killed my father or her scorching glare when I confessed.Years later, when people say, "Ed Willings is an honest man.You can take his word to the bank," they don't suspect it's shame, not goodness that makes lying just not me.But Molly slamming me with a shoe isn't her either.The screaming, cursing, throwing things of these last years of heavy drinking belong to someone dangerous who counts me as an enemy, not the cheerful, sweet-tempered girl I married on a beautiful rainy day in 1920.The motel phone rings so loudly that I jump."Easy there, pal," the clerk says, picking up the receiver.A rattling voice coming through the receiver is broken by the clerk's "Yes, Mama," and "Uh-huh . . .sure, I know . . .you're right," as he pages through Motor Trend.Stepping away to give him privacy, I look out a grimy window at nine little cabins arched around a nearly empty parking lot.In a few minutes, I can be in one of them with a cold, wet cloth easing the pounding in my head.Then a passing car backfires, cracking